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First  Aid 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

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FIRST  AID 

Helen  Bagg 

IHE  JONES  BOOK  STORE,  INC 


PROVIDERS  OF 

.  *rf|ool  anb  Amateur  EutrrlaUtmrnt* 

^19  SOUTH  HILL  STREET 
LOS  ANGELES.  CALIFORNIA 

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Successful  Rural  Plays 

A  Strong  List  From  Which   to  Select  Your 
Next  Play 

FARM  FOLKS.  A  Rural  Play  in  Four  Acts,  by  ARTHUH 
LEWIS  TUBES.  For  five  male  and  six  female  characters.  Time 
of  playing,  two  hours  and  a  half.  One  simple  exterior,  two 
easy  interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Flora  Goodwin,  a 
farmer's  daughter,  is  engaged  to  Philip  Burleigh,  a  young  New 
Yorker.  Philip's  mother  wants  him  to  marry  a  society  woman, 
and  by  falsehoods  makes  Flora  believe  Philip  does  not  love  her. 
Dave  Weston,  who  wants  Flora  himself,  helps  the  deception  by 
intercepting  a  letter  from  Philip  to  Flora.  She  agrees  to  marry 
Dave,  but  on  the  eve  of  their  marriage  Dave  confesses,  Philip 
learns  the  truth,  and  he  and  Flora  are  reunited.  It  is  a  simple 
plot,  but  full  of  speeches  and  situations  that  sway  an  audience 
alternately  to  tears  and  to  laughter.-  Price,  25  cents. 

HOME  TIES.  A  Rural  Play  in  Four  Acts,  by  ARTHUR 
LEWIS  TUBES.  Characters,  four  male,  five  female.  Plays  two 
hours  and  a  half.  Scene,  a  simple  interior — same  for  all  four 
acts.  Costumes,  modern.  One  of  the  strongest  plays  Mr.  Tubbs 
has  written.  Martin  Winn's  wife  left  him  when  his  daughter 
Ruth  was  a  baby.  Harold  Vincent,  the  nephew  and  adopted  son 
of  the  man  who  has  wronged  Martin,  makes  love  to  Ruth  Winn. 
She  is  also  loved  by  Len  Everett,  a  prosperous  young  farmer. 
When  Martin  discovers  who  Harold  is,  he  orders  him  to  leave 
Ruth.  Harold,  who  does  not  love  sincerely,  yields.  Ruth  dis 
covers  she  loves  Len,  but  thinks  she  has  lost  him  also.  Then 
he  comes  back,  and  Ruth  finds  her  happiness.  Price  25  cents. 

THE    OLD     NEW    HAMPSHIRE    HOME.      A    New 

England  Drama  in  Three  Acts,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  For  seven 
males  and  four  females.  Time,  two  hours  and  a  half.  Costumes, 
modern.  A  play  with  a  strong  heart  interest  and  pathos,  yet  rich 
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everybody  understands  and  likes.  Price,  25  cents. 

THE  OLD  DAIRY  HOMESTEAD.  A  Rural  Comedy 
in  Three  Acts,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  For  five  males  and  four 
females.  Time,  two  hours.  Rural  costumes.  Scenes  rural  ex 
terior  and  interior.  An  adventurer  obtains  a  large  sum  of  money 
from  a  farm  house  through  the  intimidation  of  the  farmer's 
niece,  whose  husband  he  claims  to  be.  Her  escapes  from  the 
wiles  of  the  villain  and  his  female  accomplice  are  both  starting 
and  novel.  Price,  15  cents. 

A  WHITE  MOUNTAIN  BOY.  A  Strong  Melodrama  in 
Five  Acts,  by  CHARLES  TOWNSEND.  For  seven  males  and  four 
females,  and  three  supers.  Time,  two  hours  and  twenty  minutes. 
One  exterior,  three  interiors.  Costumes  easy.  The  hero,  a 
country  lad,  twice  saves  the  life  of  a  banker's  daughter,  which 
results  in  their  betrothal.  A  scoundrelly  clerk  has  the  banker 
in  his  power,  but  the  White  Mountain  boy  finds  a  way  to  check 
mate  his  schemes,  saves  the  banker,  and  wins  the  girl.  Price 
15  cents. 

THE  PENN   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


FIRST  AID 


A  W^ar-Time  Comedy  in  One  Act 


HELE>    BAGG 

Author  of   "Whiskers,"  "Why  Not  Jim?" 
"Untangling  Tony,"  etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1918 


COPYRIGHT  1918  BY  THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


First  Aid 


First  Aid 


PHILIP  GARDEN 
,    HENRI  MARTIN 

DAVID  MANNERS    - 
MARGARET  SPENCER 
SALLY  PAGE  - 
EMMELINE 


CHARACTERS 

"  ~  v  ut. 
surgeon,  connected  with  the  American 

Ambulance  Corps  in  France^ 
a    tenor   from    the     Opera,    serving' 
France  in  the  trendies, 
an  English  "Tommy" 
an  English  nurse 
an  American  nurseV^*-*  &•• 
a  colored  scrub-woman] 


TIME. — 1918. 
PLACE. — France. 
SCENE. — A  field  hospital. 


STORY  OF  THE  PLAY 

Sally  Page,  a  young  American  nurse,  has  just  ar 
rived  at  a  hospital  near  the  front,  in  France.  The 
surgeon  in  charge  is  Philip  Garden,  whom  she  has 
loved,  and  quarreled  with  in  America.  Philip  has 
become  interested  in  Margaret  Spencer,  an  English 
nurse,  but  her  heart  has  been  given  long  ago  to  an 
English  officer,  David  Manners,  who  disappeared  in 
disgrace  after  a  court-martial.  A  wounded  soldier 
hero  brought  to  the  hospital  proves  to  be  Manners. 
Sally  will  make  no  move  to  bring  David  and  Margaret 
together,  but  Henri  Martin,  a  French  soldier,  decides 
to  perform  "  first  aid  "  to  the  lovers.  Through  him 
Margaret  recognizes  David.  All  her  old  love  for  him 
is  rekindled.  Philip  turns  to  Sally  for  consolation. 
"  I  guess  1  need  a  little  treatment  myself." 


1105314 


COSTUMES,  ETC. 

PHILIP  GARDEN.  About  twenty-eight.  A  fine- 
looking  man  of  the  energetic  type  that  America  has 
sent  to  France.  He  wears  a  white  hospital  uniform. 

HENRI  MARTIN.  About  forty.  He  wears  a  faded 
French  uniform  of  light  blue,  with  an  empty  sleeve. 
He  is  jaunty  and  good-humored,  and  his  English  is 
more  fluent  than  correct. 

DAVID  MANNERS.  About  thirty.  He  is  a  bedrag 
gled,  bearded,  unkempt  specimen,  dressed  in  what  is 
left  of  an  English  uniform,  and  gives  the  impression 
of  weakness  rather  than  actual  illness.  Head  and 
arm  bandaged.  Bandage  on  head  and  also  beard,  re 
moved  during  the  play. 

SALLY  PAGE.  About  twenty-six.  A  pretty  Ameri 
can  girl  in  a  Red  Cross  uniform.  She  has  a  brisk  and 
competent  manner,  which  with  her  rather  saucy  air 
makes  her  most  attractive. 

/^MARGARET  SPENCER.     About  twenty-eight.     A  tall, 
gentle-looking  English  girl,  in  a  Red  Cross  uniform. 

EMMELINE.  About  twenty-five.  A  good-looking 
young  colored  woman.  Wears  a  scrub-woman's  cos 
tume,  suggesting  a  uniform  such  as  might  be  worn  by 
employees  of  a  hospital. 


PROPERTIES 

Two  hospital  cots  and  medicine  stands.  Pail  of 
water,  scrubbing  brush  and  soap.  Pile  of  clean  blan 
kets  and  towels.  Medicine  bottles.  A  surgical  instru 
ment.  Physician's  thermometer.  Cigarettes  and 
matches.  Knitting  materials.  A  stretcher.  Small 
pad  and  pencil.  Box  of  medicine  pellets.  Hot  water 
bottle.  Glass  of  water.  Razor  and  shaving  materials. 
Basin  of  water.  Hand  mirror.  Telegram. 

If  desired  (but  not  absolutely  necessary)  sound  of 
guns  to  be  heard  at  a  great  distance  and  a  phonograph 
heard  off  stage.  Sound  of  guns  may  be  imitated  by 
rubbing  a  bass  drum.  For  the  phonograph,  if  used, 
there  should  be  one  or  two  good  opera  records  for 
tenor  voice. 


SCENE  PLOT 

B/\CK.INC 


SCENE. — A  room  in  a  field  hospital  near  the  front, 
"  somewhere  in  France."  The  room  may  be  a  tent, 
if  desired.  Door  up  c,  with  interior  backing.  If  the 
room  represents  a  tent  the  backing  is  a  canvas  curtain. 
Door  also  L.  Up  L.  a  hospital  cot  or  bed,  and  another 
up  R.  This  second  cot  may  be  omitted,  if  necessary. 
R.  of  the  door  at  c.  is  a  medicine  stand,  containing  bot 
tles,  glass  of  water,  surgical  instrument,  thermometer, 
etc.  L.  of  the  door  at  c.  is  a  wash-stand  with  basin 
and  pitcher,  towel  rack.  A  hand  mirror  on  wash- 
stand.  Down  L.  near  door  another  medicine  stand 
with  bottles,  etc.  Chair  up  L.  near  bed  and  another 
down  L.  At  R.  a  window  (may  be  omitted).  At  R. 
also  a  chair  and  a  large  chest,  containing  boxes  of 
medical  supplies. 


First  Aid 


SCENE. — A  small  room  in  a  field  hospital;  it  may  be 
a  tent,  if  desired;  something  that  gives  the  impres 
sion  of  being  not  very  far  from  the  front.  There  are 
the  usual  hospital  paraphernalia;  two  cots,  medicine 
stands,  chairs,  etc.  The  room  should  be  slightly 
disordered.  A  door  at  c.  and  one  at  L.  A  window 
at  R.,  if  desired,  but  this  is  not  necessary.  The  low 
rumble  of  guns,  -with  an  occasional  louder  sound, 
may  be  heard  intermittently  during  the  play. 

(As  the  curtain  rises,  EMMELINE,  a  good-looking 
young  colored  woman,  is  on  her  knees  down  R.,  with 
a  pail  of  water,  scrubbing  the  floor. ) 


EMMELiNE.yVDe  way  men  folks  does  track  in  de 
mud  is  shore  a  calamity!  Lan'  sakes,  if  dis  yere  ain' 
de  plumb  wettes'  country  de  Lawd  ever  done  made! 
Sometimes  I  is  jest  'bleeged  ter  wonder  ef  dere  ain' 
somefin'  in  all  dat  Kaiser  talk  'bout  "  Me  an'  God  "- 
de  way  de  weather  is  run  over  here  sure  do  look  like 
it.  (Enter  at  L.  SALLY  PAGE,  in  a  Red  Cross  uniform, 
with  her  arms  full  of  blankets,  towels,  etc.}  Now, 
lemme  catch  'em  tromplin'  in  any  mo'  mud  an'  if  I 
don'  make  'em  believe  dat  de  Day  ob  Jedgemen^s 
come,  it'll  be  case  I's  suddently  paralyzed!  (She  sees 
SALLY  and,  still  on  her  knees,  surveys  her  admiringly. ) 
Mornin',  missy.  Reckon  you  all's  de  new  nurse  dat 
rome  in  from  de  base  hospital  las'  night? 
ViV-  SALLY  (up  L.,  arranging  her  blankets  on  the  beds 
Vk  and  her  towels  on  the  racks').  Yes,  I'm  Miss  Page — 
from  New  York.  And  you  ? 


8  FIRST    AID 

EMMELINE  (trying  to  look  modest  but  failing 
utterly).  I's  Emmeline.  I  jes'  scrubs  roun'.  But 
what  dese  po',  good  fo'  nuffin'  white  folks  would  do  if 
I  was  ter  be  hit  by  a  shell,  I  sure  don'  know ! 

SALLY.     Oh,  I  see. 

EMMELINE  (rising).  Yassam.  I  reckon  I's  First 
Aid  if  dere  is  any  roun'  here. 

SALLY  ($.).  Well,  I'm  glad  you  got  the  floor  nice 
and  clean.  The  head  nurse  said  the  ambulance  would 
be  in  from  the  trenches  any  moment  with  some  more 
wounded.  i 

EMMELINE  (4r).  Deed,  yes,  chile,  woundeds  is  de 
plentifullest  tings  we's  got  roun'  here.  Dey  calls  'em 
"  blesses."  Ain'  dat  queer  ? 

(EMMELINE  pronounces  it  "  blessees.") 

SALLY  (working  as  she  talks).  Well,  no,  I  wouldn't 
call  it  queer,  as  it  happens  to  be  French  for 
"  wounded." 

EMMELINE.  Dat  so?  Well,  ain'  de  French  got  de 
queeres'  names  fer  tings?  Now  dat  young  French- 
man  dat  dey  shot  his  arm  off  is  name  "  Henry  Martin," 
an'  he  call  hisse'f  "  Ongree  Martang."  Ain'  dat  a 
scream?  Say  he's  name  after  er  big  Frenchman,  too, 
an'  dat  everybody  in  Paree  call  it  "  Martang." 

SALLY.  You  mean  the  young  man  whose  arm  was 
amputated,  and  who  sings  so  much  to  the  wounded? 

EMMELINE.  Yassam,  he's  de  big  tenor  at  de  Met 
ropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York. 

SALLY  (horrified).     Oh,  no! 

EMMELINE.  Yassam,  I's  a  New  York  nigger,  ma'- 
se'f,  so  I  knows.  I  uster  scrub  in  de  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  an'  many's  de  time  I  done  listen  to  dat 
man  rehearsin'  an'  fightin'  v/if  de  conductor  an'  rarin' 
an'  pitchin'  at  de  leadin'  lady,  an'  jes'  nacherly  raisin' 
Cain,  but  I  never  did  look  to  be  holdin'  his  han'  some- 
wheres  in  France.  No,  sir. 

SALLY.     Holding  his  hand? 

EMMELINE.  Yassam.  When  Dr.  Garden  went  to 
cut  off  dat  arm,  Misto  Martin  he  done  say:  "  Fotch  in 


x  FIRST    AID  9 

Emmeline.  I  like  for  to  have  some  woman  roun'  me 
what  I's  'quainted  wif,  an'  I's  too  sick  to  be  perticular 
'bout  color."  (Wipes  her  eyes  at  the  memory.)  Yas- 
sam,  I  reckon  he's  as  brave  as  dey  make  'em.  I  jes' 
hope  ma  Rastus  gwine  'stinguish  hisse'f  lak  dat. 

(At  the  mention  of  GARDEN'S  name  a  slight  constraint 
has  come  into  SALLY'S  manner.) 

SALLY.     Is  Rastus  your  husband? 

EMMELINE  (downkrr;  gathering  up  her  pail,  etc.). 
Yassam- — dat  is,  I  reckon  he  is,  if  he  ain'  foun'  no 
Belgium  nigger  to  turn  his  haid.  Rastus  is  powerful 
temperamental. 

SALLY.     Is  he  with  the  army  ? 

EMMELINE.  Yassam.  He  done  'listed  de  day  de 
wah  was  declare.  We  been  a-quarrelin'  dat  day  'bout 
his  spendin'  money.  Rastus  is  a  dreadful  ambitious 
nigger  to  wear  good  clothes.  So  he  got  mad  an'  went 
an'  'listed  and  says  to  me :  "  Reckon  now  Uncle  Sam's 
pay  in'  for  my  clothes  you'se  gwine  give  me  some 
peace."  "  Well,"  I  says,  "  I  will,  but  de  Germans 
won't."  An',  Ian'  sakes,  wasn'  he  ordered  off  jes'  two 
weeks  atter  dat !  So  I  jes'  packed  up  an'  jined  de  fust 
hospital  unit  dat  was  comin'  dis  way,  case  I  don'  trust 
dat  nigger  no  furder  dan  I  has  to,  no,  sir.  How'd 
you  come  over,  honey  ? 

SALLY  (down  &J.  Oh,  I've  been  over  some  time. 
I've  been  at  the  base  hospital  over  yonder  for  two 
months,  and  yesterday  they  sent  for  me  to  come  here 
and  take  Miss  Spencer's  place.  She's  going  back  to 
England  on'  a  furlough. 

(Tenor  voice  heard  singing  operatic  music  outside. 
Use  phonograph  with  good  record,  but  not  too  loud. 
Uncover  gradually  and  stop  abruptly  as  MARTIN 
enters.) 

EMMELINE.  Dere  Misto  Martin  now.  Bet  dat 
head  nurse  done  sen'  him  atter  me.  Ain'  she  de  par- 
ticulerest  pusson  you  ever  did  see?  She  mus'  make 
dis  place  seem  like  home  to  dem  woundeds — 'tain' 


IO  FIRST    AID 

likely  none  of  'em  been  ordered  roun'  so  much  sence 
he  seen  his  wife  an'  mother-in-law  las'. 

(Enter,  c.,  HENRI  MARTIN,  in  a  tattered  uniform,  with 
an  empty  sleeve.  He  is  impressed  with  the  appear 
ance  of  the  new  nurse,  and  salutes  her  most  defer 
entially.  ) 

MARTIN.  Pardon,  Mademoiselle,  but  the  ambulance 
it  have  arrive,  and  one  of  the  stretcher  men  have  been 
hurt.  Dr.  Garden  says  Emelie  is  to  come  an'  help. 

EMMELINE  (preparing  to  go}.  Didn'  I  tell  you? 
Fust  Aid?  Well,  I  guess  I's  him. 

(Exit  promptly,  c.) 

SALLY  (down  \f.     Are  there  many  wounded? 
MARTIN  (coming  down  c.).     De  usual  lot,  Madem 
oiselle,  and  I  as  useless  as  ever ! 

(Glancing  bitterly  at  his  empty  sleeve.) 

SALLY.     Oh,  no,  not  useless ! 

MARTIN.  At  any  rate,  when  I  am  old  and  de  voice 
is  gone,  I  shall  not  have  to  be  vot  you  Americans  call 
"  ze  supe."  No  one  want  a  one  arm  chorus  man,  eh  ? 

SALLY  (smiling).  How  do  you  always  know  we're 
Americans  ? 

MARTIN.  By  de  charming  air  of  independence 
w'ich  you  radiate  about  you. 

SALLY  (pleased).     Oh! 

MARTIN.  Also,  a  small  foot  in  a  well  fitting  shoe  is 
an  indication  to  an  observing  male. 

SALLY  (trying  to  tuck  her  feet  under  her).  Oh! 
After  that  I  suppose  I  mustn't  mind  if  you  do  say  that 
we  talk  through  our  noses? 

MARTIN.  They  are  adorable  noses  to  talk  through, 
Mademoiselle. 

SALLY.  I  don't  suppose  that  even  a  Boche  shell  can 
shoot  away  a  Frenchman's  politeness,  can  it? 

MARTIN.     God  forbid,  Mademoiselle  ! 

SALLY.     And  when  the  man's  a  tenor 


FIRST    AID  II 

MARTIN.  It  is  quite  impossible,  Mademoiselle. 
(She  laughs  and  goes  on  with  her  work,  which  just 
now  is  rearranging  one  of  the  medicine  stands.  He 
stands  watching  her  admiringly.  She  attempts  to  lift 
the  stand,  and  he  jumps  to  her  assistance.')  Permit 
that  I  shall  assist  you. 

SALLY  (L.  c.).  Thank  you,  Monsieur.  There,  I 
think  the  room  looks  rather  nice,  don't  you  ? 

MARTIN  (L.).  Ah,  the  American  ladies  understand 
so  well  how  to  make  the  place  look  like  home!  Two 
beautiful  American  wives  I  have  had,  Mademoiselle, 
and  lost  — 

SALLY  (sympathetically).     Oh! 

MARTIN.  Through  vot  your  American  lawyer  call 
the  "  incompatibility  of  the  temperament." 

(SALLY  crosses  R.,  sits  and  takes  up  some  knitting.) 

SALLY.     Oh ! 

MARTIN  (coming  c.).  Yes,  Mademoiselle.  They 
were  beautiful  devils  of  jealousy,  both  of  them.  No 
man  can  continue  to  live  with  a  beautiful  devil  and 
still  sing — is  it  not  so?  It  is  necessary  that  I  sing, 
consequently  we  arrange  it  so.  It  is  a  wonderful 
country,  America. 

SALLY  (dryly).  So  it  seems.  (Then  relenting.) 
But,  anyhow,  I  think  it  was  splendid  of  you  to  leave 
everything  and  come  over  here  to  fight  in  a  trench ! 

(MARTIN  goes  R.  and  gets  a  chair.) 

MARTIN  (drawing  chair  near  SALLY,  R.).  But,  no, 
Mademoiselle.  You  see,  it  is  like  this.  I  am  a 
Frenchman  of  the  people.  Some  time  when  I  sing 
before  the  great  crowd,  or  am  entertain'  by  the  rich 
ones  of  your  country,  I  forget  this.  The  big  things 
of  life  are  so  easy  to  forget,  Mademoiselle.  But  when 
this  war  come,  and  when  I  hear  what  my  frien's  have 
done,  I  say  to  myself — "  Henri  Martin,  vot  is  de  mos' 
important  thing  about  you,  my  boy?  Is  it  the  voice — 
the  great  voice — or  is  it  the  power  to  play  the  great 


12  FIRST    AID 

role — or  is  it  that  you  are  rich?  "  No!  I  tell  myself: 
"  The  mos'  important  thing  about  you,  Henri,  is  that 
you  are  a  Frenchman  of  the  people— all  the  same  as 
Papa  Joffre !  "  Then  I  say  :  "  Go  where  you  belong, 
my  child,  without  loss  of  time."  I  go,  and,  behold, 
my  friends  the  Boche  they  shoot  an  arm  off  me,  also 
without  loss  of  time.  They  are  a  simple-minded  peo 
ple,  these  Boche,  eh,  Mademoiselle? 

(MARTIN  may,  if  desired,  light  a  cigarette  with  SALLY'S 
help.) 

SALLY  (touched).  And  the  French  are  a  wonderful 
people,  Monsieur.  I — I  am  very  proud  to  be  allowed 
to  help  them  even  a  little. 

MARTIN  (simply).  One  does  what  one  may, 
Mademoiselle.  Our  friends  have  been  kind.  This 
English  lady  whose  place  you  take 

SALLY.     Miss  Spencer? 

MARTIN.  Yes.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  give  up 
her  beautiful  English  home  and  come  to  this  hole  to 
care  for  "  les  blesses." 

SALLY  (softly).  Perhaps  there  is  some  one  she 
cares  for  over  here,  and  she  wants  to  help  for  his  sake. 

MARTIN.  Do  you  know,  I  think  she  came  to  for- 
get- 

SALLY  (interested).     To  forget? 

MARTIN.  Cest  une  tragedie.  Ten  years  ago,  when 
she  was  very  young — oh,  eighteen  or  so — she  was  what 
you  call  engage  to  a  young  English  officer,  a  Captain 
Manners,  who  went  out  to  India.  And  in  India  some 
thing  happened. 

SALLY.     He  was  killed? 

MARTIN.  No,  Mademoiselle,  unfortunately.  Some 
thing  went  wrong.  Some  say  "  A  mistake  in  judg 
ment."  Others  say  "  He  had  been  drinking."  Who 
knows?  But  fifty  men  went  to  their  death  through 
him. 

SALLY  (horrified).     Oh! 

MARTIN.  After  the  court  martial  he  disappeared. 
It  is  suppose'  that  he  kill  himself. 


FIRST    AID  13 

SALLY.     How  terrible ! 

MARTIN  (rising).  Who  can  say?  But  the  English 
miss  has  never  married.  As  an  opera,  it  would  please 
me  very  much,  but  in  life — it  is  sad. 

SALLY.     It  is  dreadful. 

MARTIN  (making  dramatic  gestures  as  he  speaks). 
In  the  opera,  I  would  play  the  role  of  the  gallant 
Captain  Manners,  but  I  should  return.  In  fact,  I 
should  insist  upon  returning,  and  snatching  the  Eng 
lish  miss  away  from  the  doctor,  a  baritone,  probably, 
and  we  should  all  die  together,  comfortably. 

(Returns  R.  to  SALLY.) 

SALLY  (pricking  up  her  ears}.     The  doctor? 

MARTIN.  The  young  American  doctor.  What  you 
call  him?  Orchard? 

SALLY  (trying  not  to  show  her  dismay,  but  failing}. 
Not- — not  Dr.  Garden? 

MARTIN.  Ah,  yes,  that  is  it — Garden !  He  is  heels 
over  head  in  love  with  her.  Even  the  wounded  have 
observed  it. 

SALLY  (indignantly — jabbing  her  knitting  needles 
into  the  wool}.  I  should  think  the  wounded  had  bet 
ter  mind  their  own  affairs  ! 

MARTIN.  What  the  doctor  says  to  the  nurse  is 
their  affair,  Mademoiselle.  It  is  most  interesting  to 
every  one. 

(He  notices  SALLY'S  suppressed  excitement.} 

SALLY  (under  her  breath}.     Cats! 

MARTIN  (observing  her  closely}.  It  is  believed  that 
she  will  marry  him  when  the  war  is  over. 

SALLY.  I  don't  believe  she's  forgotten  that  poor 
man  in  India — she  couldn't ! 

MARTIN.  Forgetting  is — what  you  say  in  America 
— the  best  thing  the  ladies  do. 

SALLY  (hotly}.  I've  known  Philip  Garden  since  I 

was  ten,  and Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  when  it 

comes  to  forgetting  he — well — he  was  one  of  the  most 


14  FIRST    AID 

accomplished  flirts  that  ever  sniffed  the  sainted  air  of 
Harvard  College  and  —  Oh,  they're  coming  in  here. 

(SALLY  jumps  up  alertly,  lays  down  knitting,  and  goes 
up  R.     MARTIN  goes  itju  c.)     p^e^ 

j* 

EMMELINE    (outside}.     Keerful,   now,  goin'   rotm' 

de  corners!  (Enter  EMMELINE  and  DR.  GARDEN,  at 
c.,  carrying  a  stretcher  with  a  sick  man  lying  on  it. 
DR.  GARDEN  has  the  front  end  of  the  stretcher 
and  walks  backward.  MARTIN  assists  in  carrying 
stretcher.)  My  Ian',  am'  stretchers  de  doggondest 
things?  (They  put  the  stretcher  down,  up  L.) 

GARDEN  (to  EMMELINE).  Call  Miss  Spencer, 
please. 

(Exit  EMMELINE  at  L.  MARTIN  and  GARDEN  are 
busied  with  the  sick  man;  GARDEN  has  not  noticed 
SALLY.  MARTIN  on  knees  by  stretcher.} 

SALLY  (up  R.,  demurely}.     Is  it  a  bad  case,  doctor? 

GARDEN  (looking  up,  sees  SALLY;  is  utterly  amazed: 
gasps}.  Why,  Sally — Sally  Page!  (She  looks  at 
him,  smiling  in  spite  of  her  evident  embarrassment; 
suddenly  he  crosses  and  takes  her  hands  whole-heart 
edly.}  When  did  you  come? 

SALLY.  Last  night — base  hospital— are  you  sur 
prised? 

GARDEN.  Surprised !  Why,  Sally,  I'm — I'm  bowled 
over. 

MARTIN  (with  the  air  of  one  who  bridges  over  an 
awkward  pause}.  The  young  lady  has  jus'  tell  me 
that  she  know  the  doctor  in  America. 

GARDEN  (up  c.}.  Know  me?  Well,  I  should  think 
so.  Why,  we  fought  our  way  through  college  to 
gether,  didn't  we,  Sally? 

SALLY  (up  R.  c.).     We  certainly  fought,  Phil. 

MARTIN  (up  L.,  still  on  his  knees;  enthusiastically). 
And  now  to  meet — here — thus— what  a  romance! 

SALLY  (coldly).     Not  at  all  K  £, 

GARDEN  (frowning).  Don't  be  a  fool,  Martin! 
Lend  me  a  hand  with  this  chap. 


FIRST   AID  15 

(Pie  goes  back  to  siretcher.  Assisted  by  SALLY  and 
MARTIN,  GARDEN  helps  the  sick  man  from  the 
siretcher  to  the  bed,  up  L.) 

MARTIN  (at  foot  of  bed,  L.).  Ah,  the  poor  fellow! 
Is  he  in  bad  shape,  doctor  ? 

GARDEN  (up  c.,  busy  with  patient).  Exhaustion 
and  fever.  (To  SALLY.)  How  long  have  you  been 
over  here,  Sally  ? 

SALLY  (up  R.  c.)-  About  four  months.  Two  at 
the  base  hospital.  (Looking  at  the  bandage. )  He's 
wounded ! 

GARDEN.  Just  a  scratch.  Thermometer,  please. 
(SALLY  hands  him  thermometer^ wliich Tie  shakes 
down  as  he  talks.)  The  lucky  chap  had  the  closest 
shave  I've  heard  of  yet.  He  was  out  with  a  scouting 
party — about  fifty  of  them — cloudy  night — everything 
apparently  safe  enough,  till  they  lost  their  way.  They 
could  hear  noises  from  the  German  trenches  and  knew 
they  were  in  a  bad  place,  but  had  no  way  of  finding 
out  where.  This  chap  volunteered  to  reconnoitre 
alone. 

SALLY  (softly).     Alone! 

( While  GARDEN  is  speaking  MARGARET  SPENCER  enters 
at  £  She  stands  in  the  doorway  and  listens,  and  is 
not  noticed,  as  the  others  are  listening  also.  GAR 
DEN  does  not  see  her,  as  he  is  talking  to  SALLY.) 

GARDEN  (putting  thermometer  in  patient's  mouth). 
He  hadn't  been  gone  more  than  ten  minutes  before  the 
moon  came  out.  The  whole  place  was  like  an  electric 
lighted  boulevard.  The  scouting  party  found  that 
t^ey  were  hidden  behind  a  small  boulder,  but  didn't 
dare  move  for  fear  of  drawing  the  enemy's  fire.  This 
chap  was  out  there  in  the  moonlight — like  a  tenor  with 
the  spotlight  turned  on  him.  (MARTIN  makes  dra 
matic  gesture.)  The  enemy  saw  him  and  fired.  There 
wasn't  a  scrap  of  cover  anywhere  except  the  place  he'd 
come  from,  and  it  meant  death  or  capture  for  his 
crowd  if  he  drew  the  Bodies'  attention  to  them,  so  he 


l6  FIRST    AID 

ran — the  opposite  way — with  the  shells  hitting  the  high 
places  before  and  behind  him  and  no  place  to  go  but 
on — ran  till  he  was  exhausted  and  fell. 

(Takes  out  thermometer,  looks  at  it,  hands  it  to  SALLY, 
•who  puts  it  in  stand.} 

MARTIN    (excited).     Sacrebleu!     (Goes  down  R. ) 

GARDEN  (busy  over  patient).  By  that  time  the 
Bodies,  seeing  him  headed  for  our  trenches,  evidently 
concluded  that  it  was  no  good  wasting  any  more  shells 
on  one  lone  private,  so  they  let  up.  When  he  got  his 
breath  he  crawled  the  rest  of  the  way.  They  fired 
on  him  just  before  he  tumbled  into  our  trenches,  and 
got  him  in  the  arm,  but  not  badly.  Then  he  got  chills 
and  fever  in  the  trenches,  and  they  nearly  finished  him. 

MARGARET  (coming  into  the  room).  And  the 
others  ? 

GARDEN.  Got  off  scot  free.  Moon  obligingly  went 
under  a  cloud  later,  and  they  made  it  back  again.  (  To 
SALLY.)  Take  off  his  coat. 

(Motioning  to  patient;)  '-- 

MARGARET  (half  aside).  It  must  be  a  wonderful 
thing  to  save  fifty  men ! 

GARDEN.  Well,  rather!  He'll  get  a  D.  S.  O.  for 
it,  probably. 

(He  is  making  the  patient  comfortable  as  he  anstvers; 
takes  his  shoes  off,  as  SALLY  takes  off  coat.) 

MARGARET  (coming  nearer).     He  is  English? 

GARDEN.  Another  indomitable  Tommy !  (He  scrib 
bles  something  on  a  pad  and  gives  it  to  MARTIN.)  Get 
this  for  me  from  the  pharmacist,  please.  (MARTIN 
salutes  and  starts  up  c.,  taking  paper  from  GARDEN.) 
And,  by  the  way,  don't  come  to  blows  with  him. 
(Exit  MARTIN  at  c.  with  much  dignity.)  The  phar 
macist,  unfortunately,  is  also  a  musician,  and  used  to 
play  the  drum  at  Covent  Garden.  Now,  Sally,  get  us 
a  hot  water  bottle;  we  don't  want  any  more  chills. 
(SALLY  turns  toward  door,  L.)  Wait  a  bit;  have  you 


FIRST    AID  17 

met  Miss  Spencer?     (To  MARGARET.)     This  is  Miss 
Page,  who  is  to  take  your  place. 

(MARGARET  smiles  cordially,  SALLY  with  reserve.) 

SALLY  (up  R.  c. ).  I  am  quite  sure  I  can't  do  what 
you've  done,  but  I'll  try. 

GARDEN  (up  c.).  The  Pages  are  rather  a  wonder 
ful  family,  Miss  Spencer,  and  when  one  of  them  says 
she'll  try,  you  may  consider  the  job  done. 

MARGARET  (up  L. ).  I  am  sure  the  wounded  are  to 
be  congratulated.  They  are  exchanging  a  tired  out 
nurse  for  a  fresh  one,  and  freshness  means  so  much 
in  a  place  like  this. 

SALLY  (coolly).  Dr.  Garden  feels  obliged  to  show 
some  interest  in  me,  you  see,  as  a  fellow  American 

(Goes  L.) 

GARDEN.  Of  course.  Now,  we  won't  undress  this 
chap — Private  Johnson,  I  believe  his  name  is — because 
the  base  hospital  ambulance  will  be  here  in  about  an 
hour. 

(Exit  SALLY,  L.) 

MARGARET.     You  think  he's  in  for  a  long  spell? 

GARDEN.  I'm  afraid  so.  His  wound  is  nothing,  but 
he's  all  in  from  exposure  and  excitement.  What  he 
wants  is  rest  and  comfort. 

{He  comes  dozvn  R.  to  chest,  and  lifts  out  a  box  from 
which  he  takes  some  pellets.  MARGARET  goes  up  L. 
to  the  bed.  The  sick  man  is  very  quiet.) 

MARGARET.     Is  he  unconscious,  do  you  think? 

GARDEN  (measuring  pellets).  No,  just  played  out. 
(MARGARET  stands  by  the  bed.  The  man  moves.  She 
tries  to  make  the  pillow  more  comfortable  for  him, 
lifting  him  a  bit  in  so  doing.  He  groans  and  falls 
back  on  the  bed.  MARGARET  exclaims  slightly,  and 
GARDEN  goes  up  L.  to  her.)  Even  that  exertion  is  too 
much  for  him.  The  trip  will  be  hard  on  him,  but  it's 
the  only  thing  to  do.  He's  luckier  than  the  rest  of  the 


i8 

poor  chaps  who  came  over  this  morning.  They  had 
a  brush  with  Fritz  last  night. 

MARGARET.  Dr.  Garden,  I — I  wonder — do  you 
think  that  I  ought  to  take  this  furlough?  Are  you 
sure  that  you  can  spare  me? 

GARDEN  (up  L.  c.,  taking  her  hands}.  I  can't  spare 
you.  You  know  that,  don't  you? 

MARGARET  (drawing  her  hands  away).  I  didn't 
mean 

GARDEN.  But  as  far  as  the  work  is  concerned,  Miss 
Page  can  take  your  place  without  a  bit  of  trouble. 

MARGARET.  She's  a  dear — one  can  see  that,  but  has 
she  had  the  experience? 

GARDEN.  She's  been  two  months  in  the  base  hos 
pital  yonder.  If  you  want  to  beat  that  for  experience, 
you'll  have  to  go  to — I  beg  your  pardon — the  infernal 
regions.  But  what's  the  matter?  You  need  a  rest, 
and  I'm  sending  you  home  to  get  it.  If  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  come  back 

MARGARET.     Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  help  coming  back ! 

GARDEN.  I  don't  know.  When  I  think  of  how  it 
must  feel  to  be  in  a  place  where  there  is  no  shelling, 
no  trench  feet,  no  Boches  and  no  blood — well,  it  would 
take  nerve  to  leave  it — that's  all. 

MARGARET.  You  feel  that  way,  too?  About  the 
horror  of  it  all?  (Comes  dawnjQ 

GARDEN    (following  her,  and  standing  at  her  L.  ). 

My  dear  girl,  one  doesn't  like  horrors  just  because 

i  one's  a  doctor.     As  for  you — a  woman — I  wouldn't 

i  blame   you    for   getting   away    from   it.     Only,    if    I 

thought  you  would 

MARGARET.     Yes  ? 

GARDEN.  I'd  say  something  I  hadn't  meant  to  say — 
just  yet. 

MARGARET.     Please  don't. 

GARDEN  (whimsically'}.  Why  not?  He's  asleep, 
poor  chap,  and  Sally  seems  to  be  manufacturing  the 
hot  wrater  bottle. 

MARGARET  (agitated}.     Because  I • 

GARDEN.  Please,  Margaret.  I've  been  wanting  to 
say  it  for  so  long. 


FIRST    AID  19 

MARGARET.  And  you've  known  me  just  exactly  two 
months  !  It  puzzles  me. 

(Turns  to  chest  R.,  puts  back  box,  rearranges  contents 
of  chest  as  she  talks.) 

GARDEN.     That's  good.     Shows  you're  interested. 
MARGARET  (over  her  shoulder).     Of  course  I'm  in 
terested.     I  like  you  too  well  not  to  be. 
GARDEN  (seriously).     Do  you  mean  that,  Margaret ? 

(Goes  to  her,  R.) 

MARGARET.  Oh,  yes,  very  much  too  well.  If  I 
could  just  be  sure — but  people's  feelings  change  ^so  as 
they  grow  older,  don't  they?  I  mean,  you  can't  com 
pare  the  way  you  used  to  feel  about  a  person,  to — to 
the  way  you  feel  now  about  another,  can  you?  Oh, 
you  can't  see,  of  course ! 

GARDEN.  Yes,  I  can,  Margaret.  I  was  engaged — • 
at  college — (he  stops  suddenly}  but  that  isn't  the  point ! 
The  point  is  that  you  were  just  a  girl  when  that  hor 
rible  thing  happened.  You  couldn't  love  as  you  can 
now. 

MARGARET  (doubtfully}.  Perhaps  not,  but  I  could 
suffer,  horribly! 

GARDEN.  It  was  your  pride  that  suffered;  your 
pride  in  the  man  you  thought  you  loved. 

MARGARET.  I  sometimes  think  it's  wrong  to  live 
alone  all  one's  life  because  one  man 

(She  stops  and  turns  away,  unable  to  continue.} 

GARDEN.  Exactly.  And  I  could  make  you  happy — 
I  know  I  could !  Our  work  would  lie  along  the  same 
lines 

MARGARET.  No.  Once  this  war  is  over,  I  never 
want  to  be  near  a  hospital  again.  Oh,  I  know  it  sounds 
hard,  but  I've  seen  suffering  enough  to  make  me  sad 
for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

GARDEN.  I  don't  mean  that,  Margaret ;  I  mean  that 
by  your  encouragement  and  your  nearness  you  can 
help  me  in  my  work. 


2O  FIRST    AID 

MARGARET  (smiling).  Yes.  Men  usually  do  mean 
that  when  they  talk  about  women's  work,  don't  they? 

GARDEN.  My  dear,  you  shall  do  whatever  you  like. 
You  shall  drive  a  motor  'bus  or  preside  over  a  police 
court  if  you  wish — just  say  you'll  marry  me ! 

MARGARET.  Oh — marry.  I  don't  know  about  that. 
I  must  go  home  first.  I  must  think  about  it — but  per 
haps  (turns  to  him)  when  I  come  back  — 

GARDEN   (seizing  her  hands).     Margaret! 

(Enter  SALLY,  L.,  with  hot  water  bottle.  She  looks  at 
them,  startled,  then  goes  up  L.,  gets  towel,  wraps 
water  bottle  in  it,  and  comes  down  c.  a  few  steps.) 

SALLY  (abruptly).     Here's  the  hot  water  bottle. 
GARDEN   (gruffly).     Thank  you. 

(He  goes  up  c.  to  SALLY,  takes  bottle,  goes  up  L.,  and 

puts  it  tinder  bedcovers.) 

MARGARET  (recovering  herself  quickly).  I'm  leav 
ing  in  half  an  hour,  Miss  Page;  if  there's  anything 
you'd  like  to  ask  me  —  (Goes  to  SALLY,  c.) 

SALLY  (coldly).  Thank  you.  I'll  go  to  the  head 
nurse  if  I  get  into  trouble. 

GARDEN  (to  MARGARET).  I'm  going  to  drive  you 
over  to  the  train.  In  half  an  hour,  you  say? 

MARGARET.  Yes.  I've  only  to  change  my  things. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Page,  and  good  luck! 

(She  takes  SALLY'S  hand  cordially.) 

SALLY  (unbending  a  little,  in  spite  of  herself). 
Thank  you.  I  wish  you  a  safe  crossing. 

(Comes  down  R.     Exit  MARGARET,  c.) 

GARDEN  (up  L.,  by  bed,  enthusiastically).  Isn't  she 
charming,  Sally?  Such  a  deep  and  beautiful  nature 
for  so  young  a  woman  ! 

SALLY  (crossly).  Oh,  well,  twenty-eight  isn't  so 
horribly  young,  you  know  ! 

GARDEN  (looking  up  from  the  bedside  in  surprise). 
What? 


FIRST    AID  21 

SALLY  (hurriedly).  I  mean,  you  ought  to  be  a  little 
deep  at  twenty-eight.  (Jumping  to  a  safer  subject.) 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Private  Johnson  ? 

(Goes  up  R.) 

GARDEN.  Send  him  to  the  base  hospital  when  the 
ambulance  comes;  it  should  be  here  within  the  hour. 
I'm  going  to  leave  him  in  your  charge. 

SALLY  (coldly).  Oh,  yes,  you  said  you  were  going 
to  the  train  with  Miss  Spencer. 

GARDEN  (going  to  her).  Sally,  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  tell  you  how  good  it  seems  to  have  you  here, 
or  how  much  I  admire  your  pluck  in  coming. 

SALLY  (embarrassed).  Nonsense.  How  about  you? 
Didn't  it  take  pluck  for  you  to  come? 

GARDEN.  No.  It's  part  of  being  a  doctor — going 
where  you're  needed.  It's  in  the  job.  With  a  woman, 
it's  different. 

SALLY  (slowly).  Well,  perhaps  it  was  in  my  job, 
too. 

GARDEN.  But  what  started  you  ?  When  I  left  home 
three  years  ago,  I  left  you  the  gayest  butterfly  that  ever 
fluttered  out  of  a  limousine;  and  the  next  thing  I 
heard  was  that  you  were  studying  in  a  hospital. 

SALLY.  Oh,  well,  you  can't  butterfly  forever.  Your 
wings  get  tired.  (Tne  patient  mutters  feverishly. 
SALLY  goes  to  him.)  Yes?  What  is  it?  Oh,  the 
pillow  isn't  right?  There,  that  better? 

DAVID   (weakly}.     When  am  I — going? 

GARDEN  (up  R.).     What  did  he  say? 

SALLY  (turning  to  GARDEN).  He  wishes  to  know 
when  he's  going  to  the  base.  (To  DAVID.)  In  about 
an  hour.  When  the  ambulance  comes. 

GARDEN.  Meanwhile,  can't  you  sleep  a  bit,  old 
fellow? 

DAVID.     In  an  hour?     That's  good. 

(He  quiets  down.) 

GARDEN  (preparing  to  go,  takes  an  instrument  from 
table  up  c.  and  carries  it  down  to  chest  R.).  It's  going 


22  FIRST    AID 

to  be  bully  to  have  you  here  right  along.  You  always 
were  a  good  sport,  Sally. 

SALLY   (melting).     Yes?     (Comes  down  R.) 

GARDEN  (busy  at  chest).  It's  the  next  thing  to 
having  mother  and  the  girls  here. 

SALLY  (abruptly).     Oh! 

GARDEN.  You're  "  home  folks,"  Sally.  When 
you've  been  over  here  a  while  you'll  know  what  that 
means.  (She  does  not  answer,  and  he  continues.) 
It  means  the  people  you've  known  all  your  life — the 
people  you've  worked  and  played  with — the  people 
you've  loved  and  quarreled  with — the  people  who 
haven't  any  illusions  about  you,  but  rather  like  you 
the  way  you  are. 

SALLY  (shaking  off  her  seriousness  and  laughing}. 
Phil,  don't  they  always  "  like  you  the  way  you  are  "  ? 
Haven't  they  begun  spoiling  you  yet — over  here  ? 

GARDEN  (turning  to  her,  stiffly}.  Not  at  all.  Why 
should  they? 

SALLY  {going  c.,  dimpling).  Only  that  it  must 
seem  rather  odd  to  you  not  to  be  spoiled. 

GARDEN  (R.  c. ) .  I  never  was  spoiled,  and  you  know 
it.  That  ridiculous  quarrel  that  we  had 

SALLY  (c.).  Oh,  you  admit,  now,  that  it  was 
ridiculous? 

GARDEN  (loftily).  Everything  a  man  does  at  col 
lege  is  more  or  less  ridiculous. 

SALLY  (wincing).     Oh! 

GARDEN.  Yes.  Even  to  becoming  engaged  to  a 
woman  who  turns  out  to  be  a  hard-hearted  little  flirt. 

SALLY  (indignantly).     We  were  not  engaged. 

GARDEN.     I  thought  we  were. 

SALLY  (going  L.,  angrily).  I  refused  to  be  engaged 
to  you  because  I  knew  at  least  six  girls  that  you'd  been 
in  love  with,  and  I — I 

GARDEN  (following  her).  Sally,  Sally,  you  know 
that's  not  fair.  Besides,  you  were — different.  But 
that's  over,  and  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be 
friends  now,  is  there? 

SALLY.  No,  there  isn't.  It's  rather  difficult  not  to 
be  friends  with  you,  Phil,  even  if  you  are  a 


FIRST    AID  23 

GARDEN.     A  what? 

SALLY  (laughing).     A  philandering  goose! 

GARDEN.     Sally ! 

SALLY  (frankly).  I  hated  coming  here  because  I 
knew  that  you  were  here ;  but  if  you're  going  to  be  nice 
and  sensible,  and  realize  that  I  never  cared  for  you  in 
the  very  least—  (She  eyes  him  sharply.) 

GARDEN  (a  bit  disappointed).  Oh,  no,  of  course 
not! 

SALLY.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  mind  it  so  much. 
(Becoming  more  genuine  in  her  manner.)  And  I  do 
think  you  are  doing  wonders  here.  I  knew  you  were 
a  good  doctor,  Phil,  but — well,  since  I've  seen  some  of 
your  patients  here,  I've  been  mighty  proud  of  you. 

GARDEN.  It  was  rather  awful  at  first,  but  there 
wasn't  time  to  be  scared,  and  it's  the  place  to  bring 
out  what  a  man  knows. 

SALLY.     And  you're  young — only  twenty-eight. 

GARDEN.  Don't  give  me  away.  They  think  me 
quite  dignified  over  here. 

SALLY.     Even  Miss  Spencer? 

GARDEN.  Even  Miss  Spencer.  Sally,  I  think — I 
hope — that  maybe  she — Margaret 

SALLY.     I  thought  so. 

GARDEN   (surprised).     You  thought  so? 

SALLY.  I  mean,  I  thought  I'd  rudely  thrown  my  hot 
water  bag  into  the  middle  of  a  sentimental  episode. 
No — Phil,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  congratulate  you — 
awfully.  She's  lovely.  She's 

DAVID.     The  ambulance — when  did  you  say 

SALLY  (running  up  L.  to  bed).  Oh,  surely  in  an 
hour.  (Soothingly.)  Won't  you  try  to  rest  just  a 
little  ? 

(GARDEN  follows  up  c.) 

GARDEN.  Martin  must  have  fallen  foul  of  the 
pharmacist.  Two  musicians  in  one  hospital  is  an  over 
dose.  I'll  go  after  him.  Twenty  drops  in  a  glass  of 
water  as  soon  as  it  comes,  Sally. 

(Exit  hurriedly,  c.) 


24  FIRST    AID 

SALLY.     Yes.     (She  sits  by  the  bed.) 
DAVID.     You  won't  go  away  ? 
SALLY.     No,  indeed. 

(She  goes  down  R.,  gets  knitting,  goes  back  to  bed, 
sits,  and  goes  to  work.  Her  manner  changes.  It 
is  evident  she  is  unhappy.) 

DAVID.     Where  did  the  other  one  go? 

SALLY.  Miss  Spencer?  Why,  she  goes  back  to 
England  to-day.  Where  you'll  be  going  one  of  these 
days,  you  know. 

DAVID.     No,  I  think  not.     No! 

SALLY.  Well,  anyhow,  I'd  be  awfully  pleased  if 
you'd  try  to  grab  a  nap  before  the  ambulance  comes. 
I  hate  to  send  a  patient  away  all  fussed  and  nervous. 

DAVID.     Yes,  I'll  try — I'll  try 

(He  tosses  about  two  or  three  times  and  finally  lies 
still.  SALLY  stares  into  vacancy  for  a  moment,  as 
though  thinking  of  something  unpleasant,  then  knits 
furiously.  Enter  MARTIN,  c.,  carrying  bottle  of 
medicine. ) 

MARTIN.  I  would  like  to  'ave  dat  drum  man  under 
me  at  rehearsal  for  jus'  one  hour !  Jus'  one  leetle 

SALLY  (going  to  him  and  taking  the  bottle  from 
him).  Hush,  he  is  trying  to  rest.  (She  measures  the 
medicine,  dropping  it  into  a  glass  of  water.  MARTIN 
comes  down  L.)  Eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty!  (She 
goes  to  the  bedside,  gives  it  to  the  sick  man,  raising  his 
head  gently.)  That  will  help,  I'm  sure. 

MARTIN  (doivn  L.).  Ah,  he  has  the  luck!  They 
took  my  arm  off,  and  all  I  had  was  Emmeline  to  hoi* 
my  hand !  Ah,  ministering  angel ! 

SALLY  (upc.).  I  guess  you've  had  all  the  minister 
ing  angels  you've  needed  in  your  career,  Monsieur 
Martin. 

MARTIN.  Ah,  well,  I  do  not  complain.  One  mus' 
suffer  occasionally. 

SALLY  (grimly).     One  does,  at  any  rate. 

(She  comes  down  R.  and  sits  knitting.) 


FIRST    AID  25 

MARTIN  (crossing  R.  to  her).  It  is  good  for  one's 
career.  I  feel  that  when  I  next  play  the  role  of  a 
soldier  I  shall  do  so  with  more  authority  if  with  less 
anatomy. 

SALLY  (shivering).     Oh! 

MARTIN.  Why  not,  Mademoiselle?  Stop  singing 
because  a  part  of  me,  a  most  unnecessary  part  of  me, 
is  gone?  I  do  not  sing  with  my  arms  like  some,  thank 
heaven ! 

SALLY  (reflectively).  That  is  so.  It  is  like  being 
unhappily  in  love.  One  can  go  on. 

MARTIN  (eyeing  her  keenly).  One  must  go  on, 
Mademoiselle. 

SALLY  (wistfully).  And  after  all,  one's  first  love 
is — I  mean  — 

MARTIN.  Like  one's  left  arm;  delightful,  but  not 
altogether  indispensable. 

SALLY  (meditatively).  And  most  people  don't 
marry  their  first  loves,  do  they,  Monsieur  Martin  ? 

MARTIN.  The  wise  ones  do  not,  Mademoiselle. 
Now  if  I 

(DAVID  moves  restlessly  and  speaks  disconnectedly,  as 
though  slightly  delirious.     They  pause  and  listen.) 

DAVID.  Fifty — saved — all  of  them  !  If  she  could 
know 

MARTIN.     He  is  delirious. 

SALLY.  There,  I'm  here.  (She  goes  up  L.  to  bed.} 
I  do  know.  It's  all  over. 

DAVID.     No,  she  wouldn't — she  couldn't  — 

MARTIN  (down  R.).     The  inevitable  "  she." 

(Shakes  his  head  philosophically.) 

SALLY.     Please 

DAVID.  After  ten  years,  David  Manners,  ten  years? 
But  the  other  fifty  - 

MARTIN   (startled).    Eh,  what!     (He  goes  up  R.  c.) 
SALLY.     Hush ! 

(They  look  at  each  other  in  astonishment.) 


26  FIRST    AID 

DAVID  (angrily).  Not  Captain  Manners,  I  tell 
you!  Private — Private  Johnson!  The  Colonel  said 
at  the  court  martial — but  that  was  ten  years  ago. 
Private  Johnson,  of  the — of  the — I  can't  remember 
the  regiment — the  Colonel  knows — yes,  sir,  I'll  go — 
I'll  do  it — I'm  no  duffer — I've  been  in  India,  I  tell 
you 

SALLY  (frightened).     Hush! 

DAVID.  Margaret,  why  do  you  say  "  hush  "  ?  Don't 
you  want  to  hear  about  the  fifty  that — tell  me — 
what's  the  Kaiser  doing  in  India?  (Points  to 
MARTIN.)  Came  all  the  way  to  India  to  court-martial 
David  Manners—  (He  sinks  down  exhausted.) 

MARTIN  ( bringing  SALLY  down  c. ).  Mademoiselle, 
it  is  he !  Captain  Manners ! 

•SALLY  (wildly).  How  can  we  know?  The  man's 
delirious. 

MARTIN.  He  will  sleep  now,  and  when  he  awakes, 
his  mind  will  be  clearer.  You  must  ask  him. 

SALLY  (recoiling).  I?  Oh,  no,  I  can't!  Don't 
ask  me  to. 

MARTIN.  But  what  joy  for  the  English  miss! 
Think  of  it,  mon  amie!  Unless 

SALLY.  Yes,  that's  just  it — unless !  She's  buried 
him;  buried  him  with  pain  and  suffering,  and  built  her 
new  happiness  on  his  grave,  and  now  you're  going  to 
undo  it  all ! 

MARTIN.     But  if  she  loved  him 

SALLY.  You  said  yourself  that  wise  people  didn't 
marry  their  first  loves!  Why,  she  didn't  even  recog 
nize  him ! 

MARTIN.  With  all  that  beard  his  mother  wouldn't 
have  recognize'  him,  Mademoiselle. 

SALLY  (helplessly).  I  can't  spoil  her  life  and — 
and  Phil's — by  telling  her.  Some  one  else  might. 
Some  one  who  doesn't  care — but  not  I — not  I 

(Enter  EMMELINE,  c.) 

EMMELTNE.  De  haid  nurse  wan'  Miss  Page,  an' 
she  wan'  her  right  sma't. 


FIRST    AID  27 

SALLY.     Oh,  I (She  hesitates.) 

EMMELINE.  Bettah  hustle,  honey,  she  got  blood  in 
her  eye!  (She  vanishes  c.) 

SALLY  (to  MARTIN,  meaningly).  Stay  with  him, 
but  don't  wake  him  ! 

MARTIN  (after  a  moment's  hesitation).  I  promise, 
Mademoiselle.  (Exit  SALLY,  c.  MARTIN  takes  his 
watch  out,  frowns,  looks  at  the  patient,  shrugs  his 
shoulder  and  crosses  R.  Hums  a  bar  or  two  from 
"  Aida  "  or  "Faust.")  It  is  not  war  as  we  see  it  in 
opera,  decidedly.  Some  one  who  does  not  care — bah ! 

(He  lights  a  cigarette,  seats  himself  down  R.  and  hums 
softly.  DAVID  stirs,  tosses,  sits  up  and  rubs  his 
eyes. ) 

DAVID.     What — oh,  it's  the  hospital! 

MARTIN  (hypocritically).  Pardon,  Monsieur.  I 
have  waked  you!  (Goes  up  L.  to  bed.) 

DAVID.     It's  real,  then?     I  haven't  been  dreaming? 

MARTIN.     What  is  real,  Monsieur?     (Sits  by  bed.) 

DAVID.  Oh,  the  place  and  the  nurse — and  you,  I 
suppose. 

MARTIN.  I  am  mos'  real,  Monsieur.  Touch  my 
arm- — oh,  pardon,  not  that  one — this  one  I  assure  you 
is  mos'  real. 

DAVID  (grasping  the  significance  of  the  empty 
sleeve).  Lately?  (Touches  sleeve.) 

MARTIN.     At  Cambrai. 

DAVID.     I  was  there.     It  was  hell. 

MARTIN   (cheerfully).     Parfaitement.     It  was. 

DAVID.     But  the  nurse — tell  me — who  is  she? 

MARTIN.     A  Mees  Page  from  New  York. 

DAVID.     No — no — the  other! 

MARTIN  (slowly).  Ah,  yes,  the  English  mees! 
She  is  Margaret  Spencer. 

DAVID  (half  aside).  Then  it  was  she.  I  wasn't 
dreaming. 

MARTIN.  I  think  Monsieur  was  a  little — what  you 
call  "  out  of  the  head  "  for  a  few  moments. 

DAVID  (anxiously).     What  did  I  say? 


28  FIRST    AID 

MARTIN.  Oh,  nothing!  Jus'  the  rambling  one 
makes  when  the  head  is  not  clear. 

DAVID  (speaking  carefully  and  with  evident  effort}. 
Is  there — is  there  a  doctor  here  named  "  Phil  "  ? 

MARTIN.     To  be  sure.     Dr.  Garden. 

DAVID  (wildly).  Then  it's  all  real!  I  must  get 
away  from  here ! 

MARTIN  (soothingly).  They  will  take  Monsieur  to 
the  base  hospital  this  afternoon. 

DAVID.     This  afternoon  won't  do.     I  must  go  now. 

MARTIN.  But  it  is  impossible.  Monsieur  has  been 
ill — quite  ill.  After  his  heroic  feat  of  leading  the 
Bodies  away  from  his  countrymen  — 

DAVID  (angrily).  Heroic?  You  wouldn't  have  had 
me  lead  'em  toward  them,  would  you  ?  Heroic  tommy 
rot! 

MARTIN.  Ah,  but  it  takes  the  courage  and  the  clear 
head  to  think  quickly  under  fire ! 

DAVID  (bitterly).  The  clear  head — yes.  I  must 
get  away,  I  tell  you ! 

MARTIN.  Patience,  mon  ami.  One  has  good  care 
here,  though  of  course  we  shall  miss  the  English  nurse. 

DAVID   (eagerly).     She  is  going  away? 

MARTIN   (blandly).     She  has  gone. 

DAVID.     Gone  ? 

MARTIN.  Back  to  England.  You  will  not  see  the 
English  mees  again.  (Rises.) 

DAVID.  That  was  it !  She  said — he  was  to  drive 
her 

MARTIN.  Very  likely.  The  Americans  are  very 
gallant.  When  one  has  seen  their  women  one  does 
not  wonder.  I,  though  unworthy,  have  married  two 
of  them. 

DAVID.     What  are  you,  anyway,  a  Turk? 

MARTIN.  No,  Monsieur,  but  the  greatest  living 
tenor,  at  your  service.  Henri  Martin.  (Bows.) 

DAVID.  I  say,  that's  jolly  queer,  isn't  it?  I've  paid 
a  guinea  many's  the  time  to  hear  you  sing  "  Celeste 
Aida,"  and  now 

MARTIN.  Monsieur  may  hear  me  any  night  for 
nothing.  I  sing  each  evening  to  the  wounded.  A  one 


FIRST    AID  29 

arm'  man  need  not  be  altogether  useless,  it  seems.  An 
artist  sometimes  wonders,  in  his  dark  moments, 
whether  he  is  of  any  use  in  the  worl'. 

DAVID.  I  know.  None  of  us  need  wonder  now. 
The  war's  done  that  much  for  us. 

MARTIN.  I  think  Monsieur  would  feel  the  better 
for  a  shave  and  a  cigarette. 

DAVID  (eagerly}.     Better! 

MARTIN  (craftily).  Hush!  It  can  be  manage' 
easily  while  the  nurse  is  away. 

(He  quickly  gathers  shaving  materials  together  from 
stand  up  L.) 

DAVID.     You  are  sure  the  English  one  has  gone? 

MARTIN.  Quite.  It  is  drole.  When  I  had  two 
arms,  I  could  not  shave  myself,  but  needed  a  valet. 
Now,  with  one  arm  I  valet  others.  One  lives  and 
learns. 

(He  begins  to  shave  the  sick  man,  humming  cheer 
fully.  } 

DAVID.  Easy  there,  old  chap;  it  isn't  much  of  a 
face,  but  I'm  rather  attached  to  it,  you  know. 

MARTIN.  Parfaitement.  One  is  beginning  to  know 
what  the  face  looks  like  without  the  underbrush,  eh? 
Monsieur  is  becoming  recognizable. 

DAVID  (alarmed}.     Recognizable! 

MARTIN.  Quite  so.  Quiet,  please;  in  the  art  of 
the  barber  I  am  yet  an  amateur.  I  sometimes  blunder. 

(Pause.} 

DAVID.     Oh,  I  say,  leave  the  mustache,  please. 

MARTIN.  A  thousand  pardons,  I  cannot !  Half  of 
him  is  gone.  Ah,  Monsieur  is  younger  than  I  sup 
posed!  (Finishes.} 

DAVID.  Thanks.  It  does  feel  rather  decent  to  be 
clean  again.  You  mentioned  a  cigarette? 

MARTIN.  They  are  in  rny  room.  I  have  some  that 
were  sent  from  England.  Monsieur  will  prefer  them. 


30  FIRST    AID 

Attendez !  (Hands  the  sick  man  a  mirror.)  In  the 
meantime,  Monsieur  may  study  himself. 

(Exit  MARTIN,  c.,  humming  gayly  as  he  goes.     Dimin 
ishing  effect  with  phonograph,  if  desired.) 

DAVID  (surveying  himself  in  the  mirror).  It's  the 
face  of  the  man  who  went  out  to  India  and  made  a 
fool  of  himself.  (Pause.)  Margaret  would  know  me 
now  if  she  saw  me.  (Puts  dozvn  the  mirror;  sinks 
back  on  pillow.)  Gad,  I'm  weak!  How  fever  takes 
it  out  of  a  chap !  (Sitting  up  again,  and  speaking  ex 
citedly.)  Suppose  that  fellow  was  wrong,  and  she 
hadn't  gone?  If  she  came  back!  She  looked  at  me 
for  a  moment  as  though  she  were  reminded  of  some 
thing.  That  wouldn't  do.  She's  got  her  chance  now — 
I'll  not  get  in  the  way  again !  (Slowly,  he  drags  him 
self  up  until  he  is  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  He 
is  still  in  the  bedraggled  uniform,  as  only  the  coat  and 
shoes  have  been  removed.  He  breathes  with  difficulty. ) 
I  could  walk  if  I  had  to.  (Stands.)  I  could  man 
age (Sinks  back  on  bed  zuith  a  groan.)  But  of 

course  she's  gone.  Why  should  the  fellow  lie  to  me? 
He  knows  nothing.  Gad,  how  weak  I  am ! 

(MARGARET'S  voice  is  heard  off  c. — not  too  near,  as 
though  she  were  a  little  distance  away.) 

MARGARET.  Why,  yes,  I  will,  of  course,  but  Dr. 
Garden  left  him  in  her  care. 

M-ARTIN'S  VOICE  (off  c.).  Parfaitement.  But  she 
has  left  him  alone,  Mademoiselle. 

DAVID  (wildly).  That's  Margaret  speaking.  She 
hasn't  gone!  I  must  get  out  of  this.  (Gets  to  his 
feet,  with  great  difficulty  gets  as  far  as  the  chair,  holds 
desperately  to  it.)  I  might  be  a  baby  for  all  the 
strength  I've  got!  (Starts  to  go  alone.)  That  door's 

a  mile  away,  but  I'll  make  it (Goes  down,  but 

manages  to  crawl  to  door  up  c. )  I've  got  to  make  it ! 
(Enter  MARGARET,  c.)  Oh,  the  deuce! 

MARGARET  (running  to  him).  Oh,  how  dreadful! 
What  has  happened? 


FIRST    AID  31 

DAVID  (trying  to  keep  her  from  seeing  his  face). 
Nothing — nothing,  whatever!  Please  go  away! 

(She  forces  him  to  get  up  and  helps  him  to  the  bed. 
Then  she  sees  his  face.) 

MARGARET.     David — David ! 

DAVID.  Margaret,  you  mustn't — please — oh,  Mar 
garet  ! 

MARGARET  (sobbing  on  his  shoulder).     David! 

DAVID  (giving  up).  Margaret,  how  I've  hungered 
for  you — these  ten  years  ! 

MARGARET  (wildly).  But  I  don't  understand — • 
they  said  you  were  Private  Johnson  — 

DAVID.  I  didn't  want  you  to  know  me,  Margaret! 
I'm  going  away  from  here.  I'd  have  gone  already  if 
I  hadn't  given  out 

MARGARET.  Gone!  Without  my  knowing?  And 
j , 

DAVID.  Yes.  You've  mended  your  life.  I'll  not 
break  it  again.  I  tell  you 

MARGARET.  David,  how  could  you  so  nearly  let  me 
lose  you  again  ?  How  could  you  ? 

DAVID  (severely).  Listen  to  me,  Margaret.  David 
Manners  is  dead.  He  died  ten  years  ago.  He  was 
an  undisciplined  young  cub  who  let  liquor  get  the  best 
of  him  when  he  was  in  a  position  of  trust,  and  he  paid 
for  it — he  and  fifty  others. 

MARGARET.     Then  it — it  was  true? 

DAVID.  That  much  of  it  was.  I'll  do  him  this 
much  justice,  though;  I've  never  been  sure  that  I 
wouldn't  have  done  the  same  thing  sober.  It  was  one 
of  those  hare-brained  charges  that  are  all  right  when 
they  turn  out  all  right,  and  all  wrong  when  they  don't. 
But  the  worst  part  of  it  was  that  I  couldn't  tell ! 
Perhaps  in  my  right  mind  I  wouldn't  have  taken  the 
chance.  I'll  never  know.  They  broke  me — and  right 
enough  it  was. 

MARGARET.     And  I 

DAVID.  Do  you  think  I'd  let  you  tie  yourself  to  a 
disgraced  man?  I  wrote  you  the  truth,  and  then 
disappeared. 


32  FIRST    AID 

MARGARET.  But  I  might  have  tried  to  find  you — 
and  I  didn't.  I  was  a  coward,  David.  I  was  frightened 
and  I  let  you  go. 

DAVID.     It's  what  you  must  do  again — let  me  go. 

MARGARET.  Never !  I've  learned  things,  David,  in 
ten  years.  I — I'm  not  a  coward  any  more. 

DAVID  (excitedly).  I  tell  you,  David  Manners  is 
dead !  Don't  think  that  because  I've  done  one  decent 
thing  I'm  going  to  let  him  come  back  to  life  again. 
Private  Johnson  saved  those  men  the  other  night. 
He's  going  back  now  to  finish  his  job. 

(Tries  to  rise.     MARGARET  gently  pushes  him  back  on 
the  bed  where  he  lies,  half  sitting.) 

MARGARET.     David — never — never  while  I  live ! 

DAVID.  I  can't  trust  the  other  one.  I  haven't 
known  him  for  ten  years.  How  do  I  know  that  he 
won't  go  back 

MARGARET.     But  I  know!     I'll  answer  for  him. 

(Kneels  by  the  bed.) 

DAVID.  I  won't  let  you.  Listen  to  me,  dear;  I 
heard  you  talking  to  the  American  doctor  who  brought 
me  in.  I  understand  you — as  he  does — better  than 
you  understand  yourself. 

MARGARET.     No — no 

DAVID.  He's  a  good  chap — a  fine  chap.  There  are 
i.o  better  fellows  on  earth  than  these  Americans  that 
are  coming  over.  You'll  marry  him,  and  leave  the  old 
memories  behind  forever. 

MARGARET.  David,  I  shan't  marry  any  one  just  to 
please  3^ou. 

DAVID.     To  please  me ! 

MARGARET.  I  know  I  was  a  miserable  little  beast 
not  to  stand  by  you  —  (He  tries  to  stop  her.)  But 
I'm  going  to  do  it  now.  I'm  going  to  marry  the  man 
I  love — I  don't  care  if  he  is  Private  Johnson ! 

DAVID  (feebly).     Margaret! 

MARGARET  (happily).  It's  not  a  pretty  name. 
Why  did  you  choose  it  ? 


FIRST   AID  33 

DAVID.  It  didn't  seem  to  matter  at  the  time.  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  asking  any  one  to  share  it  with  me, 
I  had  to  be  back  with  the  army  when  the  trouble  came, 
so  I  just  enlisted. 

MARGARET  (burying  her  face  in  his  shoulder). 
David,  if  you  hadn't 

DAVID.  If  I'd  known  that  the  regiment  was  to  be 
under  Colonel  Armstrong  I'd  never  have  dared  try  it. 
I've  messed  with  the  old  boy  a  thousand  times  in  the 
old  days,  and  I've  been  deathly  afraid  he'd  recognize 
me. 

MARGARET.  No  one  could  recognize  you,  David, 
with  that  vile  beard — not  even  I. 

DAVID.  Margaret,  you're  sure  that  you  won't  re 
gret  ?  I'll  never  be  anything  but  Private  Johnson,  you 
know. 

MARGARET.     Doesn't  a  woman  know  after  ten  years  ? 

DAVID.     Margaret ! 

(SALLY  enters,  stands  in  the  doorway,  c.) 

SALLY.  Oh !  Oh  !  (She  steps  forward,  R.  c.,  stops, 
half  frightened,  half  angry.)  Then  you 

MARGARET  (rising  and  speaking  with  dignity). 
Come  in,  Miss  Page.  Your  patient  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  I  didn't  recognize  him  till  I  saw  him  clean 
shaven. 

SALLY  (sharply).     Who  shaved  him? 

DAVID.  A  young  man  who  says  he  is  the  greatest 
living  tenor. 

SALLY.  The  vampire!  I  shall  never  trust  a 
Frenchman  again — never ! 

MARGARET  (gently).  And,  after  all,  Miss  Sally,  I 
think  you  are  the  one  to  be  scolded.  I  found  your 
patient  alone  and  trying  to  walk. 

SALLY  (conscience  stricken).  Oh!  How  dreadful! 
I  haven't  been  gone  but  a  few  minutes,  and  he  prom 
ised  You  see,  the  head  nurse  sent  for  me,  and 

while  I  was  there  the  English  officer  drove  up  in  his 
motor,  and  there  was  such  an  excitement ! 

DAVID.     What  English  officer? 


34  FIRST   AID 

SALLY.  I  don't  know.  Somebody  dreadfully  im 
portant.  He  had  everybody  by  the  ears. 

MARGARET.     What  did  he  want  ? 

SALLY.  I  don't  know,  but  he  wanted  it  pretty  badly. 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  have  a  fit.  Then  Monsieur 
Martin  came  in 

MARGARET.     Ah,  yes. 

SALLY.  They  went  at  each  other  like  two  dread 
fully  excited  tomcats,  and  I  suddenly  remembered 

that  my  patient  was  alone,  so  I  ran.  I  thought 

(She  stops,  looks  at  MARGARET,  then  continues.}  I 
thought  Dr.  Garden  was  going  to  drive  you  to  the 
train  ? 

MARGARET.  I  am  not  going  to  England.  I  am 
going  to  see  this  patient  safely  to  the  base  hospital. 

SALLY  (a  little  taken  back).  Oh!  It — it's  very 
good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  Then  you  won't  need  me  any 
longer. 

(She  starts  up  stage.     Enter  GARDEN,  excitedly,  c., 
followed  by  MARTIN.) 

GARDEN.  Sally,  where's (He  sees  the  others, 

and  goes  to  MARGARET.)  Margaret!  You  know? 

MARGARET  (up  L.  c.,  with  sympathy).  Yes,  Phil, 
I  know.  (Turning  to  DAVID.)  At  last, 

GARDEN  (up  c.,  taking  MARGARET'S  hand  and  look 
ing  into  her  face  as  though  hoping  to  read  something 
there  which  he  does  not  see).  Margaret,  I — I'm  glad. 
(To  DAVID.)  I  congratulate  you,  sir. 

DAVID  (up  L.,  simply).     Thank  you,  doctor. 

SALLY  (up  R.  c,  aside).     Good  old  America? 

MARTIN  (up  R.,  to  her).  Parfaitenient,  Mademoi 
selle.  Good  old  America.  Hah ! 

(Comes  down  L.,  evidently  pleased  with  himself.) 

MARGARET.     But  how  did  you  know? 

GARDEN  (in  some  irritation) .  Know?  How  is  any 
one  to  help  knowing — with  the  British  Army  bellowing 
it  all  over  the  place?  (Comes  down  R.) 

DAVID.     What ! 


FIRST    AID  35 

GARDEN.  Old  Armstrong's  been  exploding  fire 
works  in  the  office  for  half  an  hour  trying  to  make 
some  one  understand  that  the  young  firebrand  who's 
coming  in  for  the  D.  S.  O.  or  the  V.  C.  or  whatever  it 
is  you  Tommies  call  it  isn't  Private  Johnson,  but  Cap 
tain  David  Manners  of  the  British  Army. 

DAVID,     The  deuce! 

MARTIN  (with  eloquent  gestures}.  Parfaitement. 
The  Colonel  say  he  have  notice  something  familiar 
about  the  young  man,  but  he  have  not  suspect  until 
they  find  among  his  things  the  miniature  of  a  lady  that 
the  Colonel  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing.  (Bows.) 

MARGARET.     My  picture! 

MARTIN.  So.  And  now  the  Colonel  come  to  con 
gratulate  the  young  man  and  to  welcome  him  back  to 
the  service.  (Grand  gesture.) 

MARGARET.  I  shall  have  my  way  after  all,  for  even 
you,  David,  cannot  hide  what  everybody  knows. 

(She  throws  her  anus  around  DAVID.  GARDEN, 
dozun  R.,  turns  away.  SALLY  comes  down  R.  and 
puts  hand  on  his  shoulder.) 

SALLY.  Remember,  Phil,  there's  a  lot  of  hard  work 
for  you  and  me  to  do,  and  there's  no  First  Aid  like 
work. 

GARDEN  {turning  to  her,  bravely}.  Real  work  this 
time,  Sally,  not  college  fun. 

(SALLY  nods,  and  he  takes  her  hand  in  a  comradely 
manner. ) 

MARGARET  (aside,  and  as  though  something  were 
dawning  on  her).  College!  Oh!  I  see! 

(She  turns  back  to  DAVID.     Enter  EMMELINE,  c.,  ex 
citedly  waving  a  telegram.} 

EMMELINE.  Jes'  listen,  you  v-hite  folks,  how  ma 
Rastus  done  'stinguish  hisse'f.  I's  so  proud  of  dat 
nigger,  'pears  lak  I'll  bust.  (Reads.)  "Done  been 
under  fire  and  spoiled  my  best  uniform.  Please  send 


36  FIRST   AID 

twenty-five  dollars  right  smart.  Rastus."  What  you 
think  of  dat? 

MARTIN.  It  is  grand.  And  will  Monsieur  Rastus 
get  the  money? 

EMMELINE  (coming  down  L.  to  MARTIN).  Man, 
dat  nigger  gwine  have  his  money  if  I  has  to  take  it  to 
him  mahself ! 

SALLY  (laughing).     More  First  Aid. 

GARDEN  (smiling,  then  growing  serious).  Sally,  I 
guess  I  need  a  little  treatment  myself.  Will  you  stand 
by  me,  old  girl  ? 

SALLY.     Yes,  Phil. 

MARGARET    DAVID 
SALLY  EMMELINE 

GARDEN  MARTIN 


CURTAIN 


Unusually  Good  Entertainments 

Read  One  or  More  of  These  Before  Deciding  on 
Your  Next  Program 

GRADUATION   DAY  AT   WOOD   HILL   SCHOOL. 

An   Entertainment  in  Two  Acts,  by  WARD   MACAULEY.     For  six 

males   and    four    females,    with    several    minor    parts.      Time    of 

playing,  two  hours.     Modern  costumes.     Simple  interior  scenes ; 

•ay  be  presented  in  a  hall  without  scenery.     The  unusual  com- 

\ation  of  a  real  "entertainment,"  including  music,  recitations, 

etc.,   with   an   interesting  love   story.     The   graduation   exercises, 

include    short    speeches,    recitations,    songs,    funny    interruptions,' 

and   a  comical   speech   by   a  country   school   trustee.      Price,    15 

cents. 

EXAMINATION  DAY  AT  WOOD  HILL  SCHOOL. 

An  Entertainment  in  One  Act,  by  WARD  MACAULEY.  Eight  mal«» 
and  six  female  characters,  with  minor  parts.  Plays  one  hour. 
Scene,  an  easy  interior,  or  may  be  given  without  scenery.  Cos 
tumes,  modern.  Miss  Marks,  the  teacher,  refuses  to  marry  a 
trustee,  who  threatens  to  discharge  her.  The  examination  in 
cludes  recitations  and  songs,  and  brings  out  many  funny  answers 
to  questions.  At  the  close  Robert  Coleman,  an  old  lover,  claims 
the  teacher.  Very  easy  and  very  effective.  Price,  15  cents. 

BACK  TO  THE  COUNTR>  STORE.  A  Rural  Enter 
tainment  in  Three  Acts,  by  WARD  MACAULEY.  For  four  male 
and  five  female  characters,  with  some  supers.  Time,  two  hours. 
Two  scenes,  both  easy  interiors.  Can  be  played  effectively  with 
out  scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  All  the  principal  parts  are 
sure  hits.  Quigley  Higginbotham,  known  as  "Quig,"  a  clerk  in 
a  country  store,  aspires  to  be  a  great  author  or  singer  and 
decides  to  try  his  fortunes  in  New  York.  The  last  scene  is  in 
Quig's  home.  He  returns  a  failure  but  is  offered  a  partnership 
in  the  country  store.  He  pops  the  question  in  the  midst  of  a 
surprise  party  given  in  his  honor.  Easy  to  do  and  very  funny. 
Price,  15  cents. 

THE  DISTRICT  CONVENTION.  A  Farcical  Sketch 
in  One  Act,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  For  eleven  males  and  one 
female,  or  twelve  males.  Any  number  of  other  parts  or  super 
numeraries  may  be  added.  Plays  forty-five  minutes.  No  special 
[scenery  is  required,  and  the  costumes  and  properties  are  all 
'easy.  The  play  shows  an  uproarious  political  nominating  con* 
vention.  The  climax  comes  when  a  woman's  rights  cham 
pion,  captures  the  convention.  There  is  a  great  chance  to  bur 
lesque  modern  politics  and  to  work  in  local  gags.  Every 
part  will  make  a  hit.  Price,  15  cents. 

SI  SLOCUM'S  COUNTRY  STORE.  An  Entertainment 
in  One  Act,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  Eleven  male  and  five  female 
characters  with  supernumeraries.  Several  parts  may  be  doubled. 
Plays  one  hour.  Interior  scene,  or  may  be  played  without  set 
scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  The  rehearsal  for  an  entertain 
ment  in  the  village  church  gives  plenty  of  opportunity  for 
specialty  work.  A  very  jolly  entertainment  of  the  sort  adapted 
to  almost  any  place  or  occasion.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


Unusually  Good  Entertainments 

Read  One  or  More  of  These  Before  Deciding  on 
Your  Next  Program 

A  SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  BRINKLEY'S.  An  En 
tertainment  in  One  Scene,  by  WARD  MACAULEY.  Seven  male  and 
seven  female  characters.  Interior  scene,  or  may  be  given  with 
out  scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  Time,  one  hour.  By  the 
author  of  the  popular  successes,  "Graduation  Day  at  Wood  Hill 
School,"  "Back  to  the  Country  Store,"  etc.  The  villagers  have 
planned  a  birthday  surprise  party  for  Mary  Brinkley,  recently 
graduated  from  college.  They  all  join  in  jolly  games,  songs, 
conundrums,  etc.,  and  Mary  becomes  engaged,  which  surprises 
the  surprisers.  The  entertainment  is  a  sure  success.  Price,  15  cents. 

JONES  VS.  JINKS.  A  Mock  Trial  in  One  Act,  by 
EDWARD  MUMFOKD.  Fifteen  male  and  six  female  characters,  with 
supernumeraries  if  desired.  May  be  played  all  male.  Many  of  the 
parts  (members  of  the  jury,  etc.)  are  small.  Scene,  a  simple 
interior ;  may  be  played  without  scenery.  Costumes,  modern. 
Time  of  playing,  one  hour.  This  mock  trial  has  many  novel 
features,  unusual  characters  and  quick  action.  Nearly  every 
character  has  a  funny  entrance  and  laughable  lines.  There  are 
many  rich  parts,  and  fast  fun  throughout.  Pri~e,  15  cents. 

THE  SIGHT-SEEING  CAR.  A  Comedj  Sketch  in  One 
Act,  by  EHNEST  M.  GOULD.  For  seven  males,  t.vo  females,  or 
may  be  all  male.  Parts  may  be  doubled,  with  quick  changes,  so 
that  four  persons  may  play  the  sketch.  Time,  forty-five  minutes. 
Simple  street  scene.  Costumes,  modern.  The  superintendent 
of  a  sight-seeing  automobile  engages  two  men  to  run  the 
machine.  A  Jew,  a  farmer,  a  fat  lady  and  other  humorous 
characters  give  them  all  kinds  of  trouble.  This  is  a  regular  gat- 
ling-gun  stream  of  rollicking  repartee.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  CASE  OP  SMYTKE  VS.  SMITH.  An  Original 
Mock  Trial  in  One  Act,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  Eighteen  males 
and  two  females,  or  may  be  all  male.  Plays  about  one  hour. 
Scene,  a  county  courtroom  ;  requires  no  scenery ;  may  be  played 
in  an  ordinary  hall.  Costumes,  modern.  This  entertainment  is 
nearly  perfect  of  its  kind,  and  a  sure  success.  It  can  be  easily 
produced  in  any  place  or  on  any  occasion,  and  provides  almost 
any  number  of  good  parts.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  OLD  MAIDS'  ASSOCIATION.  A  Farcical  Enter 
tainment  in  One  Act,  by  LOUISE  LATHAM  WILSON.  For  thirteen 
females  and  one  male.  The  male  part  may  be  played  by  a 
female,  and  the  number  of  characters  increased  to  twenty  or 
more.  Time,  forty  minutes.  The  play  requires  neither  scenery 
nor  properties,  and  very  little  in  the  way  of  costumes.  Can 
easily  be  prepared  in  one  or  two  rehearsals.  Price,  25  cents. 

BARGAIN  DAY  AT  BtOOMSTEIN'S.  A  Farcical 
Entertainment  in  One  Act,  by  EDWARD  MUMFORD.  For  five  males 
and  ten  females,  with  supers.  Interior  scene.  Costumes,  mod 
ern.  Time,  thirty  minutes.  The  characters  and  the  situations 
which  arise  from  their  endeavors  to  buy  and  sell  make  rapid-fire 
fun  from  start  to  finish.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


Successful  Plays  for  All  Girls 

In  Selecting  Your  Next  Play  Do  Not  Overlook  This  List 

YOUNG  DOCTOR  DEVINE.  A  Farce  in  Two  Acts, 
by  MRS.  E.  J.  H.  GOODFELLOW.  One  of  the  most  popular 
plays  for  girls.  For  nine  female  characters.  Time  in 
playing,  thirty  minutes.  Scenery,  ordinary  interior.  Mod 
ern  costumes.  Girls  in  a  boarding-school,  learning  that  a 
young  doctor  is  coming  to  vaccinate  all  the  pupils,  eagerly  con 
sult  each  other  as  to  the  manner  of  fascinating  the  physician. 
When  the  doctor  appears  upon  the  scene  the  pupils  discover  that 
the  physician  is  a  female  practitioner.  Price,  15  cents. 

SISTER  MASOXS.  A  Burlesque  in  One  Act,  by  FRANK 
DUMONT.  For  eleven  females.  Time,  thirty  minutes.  Costumes, 
fantastic!  gowns,  or  dominoes.  Scene,  interior.  A  grand  expose 
of  Masonry.  Some  women  profess  to  learn  the  secrets  of  a 
Masonic  lodge  by  hearing  their  husbands  talk  in  their  sleep, 
and  they  institute  a  similar  organization.  Price,  15  cents. 

A  COMMANDING  POSITION.  A  Farcical  Enter 
tainment,  by  AMELIA  SANFORD.  For  seven  female  char 
acters  and  ten  or  more  other  ladies  and  children.  Time,  one 
hour.  Costumes,  modern.  Scenes,  easy  interiors  and  one  street 
scene.  Marian  Young  gets  tired  living  with  her  aunt,  Miss 
Skinflint.  She  decides  to  "attain  a  commanding  position." 
Marian  tries  hospital  nursing,  college  settlement  work  and 
school  teaching,  but  decides  to  go  back  to  housework.  Price,  15 
cents. 

HOW  A  WOMAN  KEEPS  A  SECRET.  A  Comedy 
in  One  Act,  by  FRANK  DUMONT.  For  ten  female  characters. 
Time,  half  an  hour.  Scene,  an  easy  interior.  Costumes,  modern. 
Mabel  Sweetly  has  just  become  engaged  to  Harold,  but  it's  "the 
deepest  kind  of  a  secret."  Before  announcing  it  they  must  win 
the  approval  of  Harold's  uncle,  now  in  Europe,  or  lose  a  possible 
ten  thousand  a  year.  At  a  tea  Mabel  meets  her  dearest  friend. 
Maude  sees  Mabel  has  a  secret,  she  coaxes  and  Mabel  tells  her. 
But  Maude  lets  out  the  secret  in  a  few  minutes  to  another 
friend  and  so  the  secret  travels.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  OXFORD  AFFAIR.  A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts, 
by  JOSEPHINE  H.  COBB  and  JENNIE  E.  PAINE.  For  eight  female 
characters.  Plays  one  hour  and  three-quarters.  Scenes,  inter 
iors  at  a  seaside  hotel.  Costumes,  modern.  The  action  of  the 
play  is  located  at  a  summer  resort.  Alice  Graham,  in  order  to 
chaperon  herself,  poses  as  a  widow,  and  Miss  Oxford  first  claims 
her  as  a  sister-in-law,  then  denounces  her.  The  onerous  duties 
of  Miss  Oxford,  who  attempts  to  serve  as  chaperon  to  Miss 
Howe  and  Miss  Ashton  in  the  face  of  many  obstacles,  furnish 
an  evening  of  rare  enjoyment.  Price  15  cents. 

THE  PENN   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


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